


End with Hope

by PepperPrints



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arthurian, Courtship, Inspired by A Knight's Tale (2001), Knights - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: In 537 A.D., the Black Knight enters King Arthur's Tournament of Champions, with quite disastrous consequences, and Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table takes it upon himself to intervene -- which, naturally, also turns out to be quite disastrous in itself.





	End with Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Jem, for being a constant supporter of this as I was actively writing it, and Parker who cleaned this up into a much more presentable version for its final draft -- without her ever present love and support, this wouldn't be completed. 
> 
> This is very inspired by A Knight's Tale, along with all the vague memories of Arthurian lore I can pull from my brain from when I used to be actually knowledgeable about it.

They’d check. 

Aziraphale returns from his ‘confrontation’ with the Black Knight with his brain buzzing. Not only was he shocked to find Crowley here of all places, but the audacity of what he suggested lingers on him. Empty-handed as he is, a report to head office seems pertinent now more than ever; an update on the wily demon Crowley certainly deserves to be noted. 

But, uncharacteristically, Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley’s proposal, as casual and coy as it was, lingers on him -- not because it Tempts (with a capital T) him, but because it’s nagging on him. 

They would check, wouldn’t they? If Aziraphale didn’t contact anyone tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. They would check.

...right? 

\--

There are certain traits inherent to an angel: celestial harmony with all God’s creatures being one of them. Animals, all great and small, simply recognize Her agents on a very primal level. Birds tend to break out in song when he walks by, and even the wildest of creatures won’t shy from his touch. While Aziraphale isn’t the most elegant on horseback, the steeds are always very fond of him. 

Naturally, the opposite is true as well. 

“No, absolutely not -- I told you: I need  _ my _ horse. Big ugly thing. Most dreadful animal you ever saw. Sparks flying off its horseshoes. You’d know when you saw it.” 

On the topic of recognition: Aziraphale would know that voice anywhere. That in itself is a fact that carries plenty of things to unpack, but he can’t prioritize that just yet. The forces of Good are far more concerned with outside work -- thwarting, rather than self reflection. Stepping down into straw and dirt, he abandons his own predictably white steed to wander towards the other half of the stables, where a familiar figure is arguing with the stable boy. 

“Cra—Crowley?” Aziraphale corrects himself quickly. “You again?” 

“Oh, hi Aziraphale,” Crowley answers over his shoulder, as if they were neighbours who just nudged elbows in a market square; not two arch enemies facing each other in the middle of a war. “Excuse me a moment, would you?” 

Crowley turns back to the stable boy, a gangly looking lad who could be anywhere from eight to fourteen. Aziraphale still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of placing ages.

“Look, Wart,” the demon continues, with the kind of patience that seems more befitting of a saint than a demon. “I need that horse. That horse. Not any other horse. That one: with all the bells and whistles and hellfire in its nostrils, okay? Figure out where it went for me, would you?” 

With that, Crowley raises the visor of his helmet, winks one yellow eye, and the boy’s face lights up in shocked awe. The bow he offers Aziraphale on his way out of the stables is clumsy, at best.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, frowning as the boy dashes off. “Was that really necessary?”

“Well, it’s necessary that I have a horse,” Crowley replies, turning to face Aziraphale. “Preferably a hellish one, so it doesn’t instinctively try to crush my demonic body under its heels.” Then, so smoothly it could be an afterthought: “Can’t exactly joust without a horse.”

“Jou-- you’re competing?” Aziraphale utters disbelievingly. “Why?”

“You’re not?” Crowley counters, as if it’s the most straightforward thing in the world, and he adds as Aziraphale stares at him. “It’s to be a crushing blow to the ego: the Black Knight winning King Arthur’s tournament.” Crowley thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “There’s also some big prize I’m meant to be usurping I suppose?” 

Despite himself, Aziraphale’s cheeks colour. “Oh. That.” Fidgeting a bit in his armor, Aziraphale huffs a breath. “Diamonds, yes.” 

During one of his travels, Arthur found a beautiful crown adorned with nine shimmering diamonds -- which have all been gradually awarded as prizes in these tournaments of knights. The last of the set is to be given away to the winner of this final competition... and the pressure is high, given that a single knight has won every single one so far.

“Yeah, I hear that Lancelot’s after the set as a present for... you know,” Crowley says, brows raising over his yellow eyes suggestively. 

Aziraphale flusters on immediate instinct. Here’s Crowley, of all people, talking so casually about the secret that threatens to tear the entire Round Table apart as if it’s nothing at all. “You—” Glancing around them, Aziraphale confirms the lack of any eavesdropper as he lowers his voice. “How do you know about that?” That’s the first question, then the second comes more hotly: “was that your doing?!” 

“What?! No!” Crowley recoils as if stung. “Why would that be me?”

“Well it certainly sounds like a temptation,” reasons Aziraphale, chin raising slightly. 

Scoffing, Crowley shakes his head. “It’s love, angel,” Crowley chastises, sneering the word and slapping the visor back down over his face. “That’s your domain.”

\--

Word spreads fast: The Black Knight has enlisted in the Tournament of Champions.

Really, there isn’t much to be done in regard to reprimands. The Black Knight is elusive and has never been defined as any single man from any single place. Of what crimes would he be accused? And with what evidence? Noble King Arthur can’t just arrest an unfamiliar knight from a distant, unfamiliar country just because he happens to wear a dark set of armour and carry such an ominous aura. It would be unjust. Whatever false paperwork Crowley has presented is innocuous in itself, and he certainly isn’t going around calling himself the Black Knight.

So, foregoing the more threatening alias, Crowley gets to joust. Unless Aziraphale can do something about it.

“I’d just like to see his papers,” he entreats to the men at the entrance to the arena. Pressing hands together in front of himself, he offers a modest smile. He’s holding up the line of knights hoping to register today, but he has to try something. “If you’d be so kind.”

“Do you doubt the honour of another lord, Sir Aziraphale?” comes the icy reply, and Aziraphale wilts -- obviously he’s not garnering the sort of sympathy he’d hoped for. These people are probably more concerned about the sport itself being entertaining than any of his politics. “That is a serious accusation.”

“I just have… reasons to believe, that this Sir Crowley is not who he says he is,” he offers. The very large, very bored gentleman taking registrations seems to be doing his best to look around him, as if hoping that Aziraphale will get the hint and simply move along. He determinedly doesn’t, and the guard sighs in annoyance. 

“Which are?”

He should be able to come up with something. More practically, he should have planned this encounter better before simply storming up and expecting to be agreed with. Unfortunately, neither is true.

“…reasons?” Aziraphale tries uselessly. “Please, my dear boy, I simply  _ must  _ insist --”

Then he feels it. Hell does not have many creatures, since it’s a very difficult process to have an animal be classified as Fallen. But sure enough, there are still Hell Hounds, even Hell Birds, and much less Hell Cats than most would guess. Horses, however… there’s quite an exceptional amount of Hell Horses.

Crowley’s beast is a daunting one: tall and muscular. Its tail flicks like a whip, head tossing with too shrill of a whinny as it slows through the crowded streets. At first glance, the great thing’s eyes seem to shine a deep, blood red, although it must be a trick of the light. Still, if one looks long enough…

“Good day, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round,” greets Crowley from atop his hellish steed. From behind the cover his helmet, his voice echoes ominously. Aziraphale is only imagining the smugness, to be sure.

“Good day, Sir Crowley,” Aziraphale replies warily, “of…” 

Pausing, Aziraphale cocks his head and feigns innocent curiosity. “Where are you saying you’re from, good sir knight?”

Masked as he is, Aziraphale can’t see Crowley’s fiendish grin, but he can hear it in his voice. “Nohwhyre,” he answers confidently. 

“Nohwhyre,” repeats Aziraphale flatly, his tone utterly dull, his glare utterly sharp with disbelief. “Tell me, what seasons do you have in Nohwhyre?”

“Fantastic seasons,” Crowley answers smoothly. “More seasons than you can shake a lance at.”

Aziraphale scowls at him, and promptly leaves the registration line -- not like he’s made any progress arguing over paperwork, and Crowley is clearly confident enough in his forgery to gloat in person. He’s too busy storming away to notice right away that Crowley is following him: obnoxiously trailing after him by horseback through the city streets. 

“What about where you hail from good Sir Aziraphale?” teases Crowley innocently, seemingly determined to draw out his clever little gag for as long as possible. “Does Arthur know you’re just East of Eden?” 

“You’re awful,” Aziraphale scolds sourly, and Crowley rides stubbornly behind him. 

“What? You don’t want to talk about the seasons in Eden, Sir Aziraphale?” he taunts mercilessly. “I hear it’s quite lovely.” 

Huffing, Aziraphale shakes his head. He tries to hold his tongue, but something smart bounces around in his mouth and refuses to sit still. “You mean until the rain comes in,” he notes, unable to believe he’s actually indulging him.

“Mh,” hums Crowley thoughtfully. “When you’ve got the right company, it’s not too bad.”

Aziraphale stops, glancing up at Crowley’s masked face. Sighing deeply, he can’t help but wonder about it all. Why does Crowley always give him a feeling that most sounds like doubt? Maybe that’s part of Crowley’s demonic nature: always a little bit tempting in the smallest of ways 

“Do you really have to do this?” he asks mournfully. 

“This? No,” Crowley says, gesturing to the reins in his hands and the horse beneath him. “Well, yes. Sort of. I can’t stable him anywhere with the whole… demonic aura thing. Sets the other horses into a panic. I’ve mostly just kept riding him since I don’t know where to put him in the meantime.” Crowley wiggles in his saddle, “Let me tell you, my buttocks—”

“I’m not talking about the horse, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts shortly. Or his buttocks. Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, never mind.” 

As Aziraphale starts to walk off again, Crowley calls after him. “I’m competing tomorrow.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale stops. Turning around to look at him, he raises his chin. “And I suppose you’ll win?”

“Oh, easily,” Crowley says immediately. “Sir Fentin’s a drunken git.”

They simply stand there for a moment, the crowd stiffly navigating around them, before Crowley adds. 

“Are you going to be there?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Instead, he swallows down something hard in his throat and walks away.

\--

Jousting is no easy sport. Aziraphale has only started to consider this fact as he sits in the audience waiting for the match to start. While they are supernatural beings at their core, they aren’t inherently deft at any task they set themselves to – it takes work, same as any living being on this planet. So, that leaves the question: does Crowley intend to magic himself through the whole tournament, or has he actually developed the skill?

Maybe that’s not such a far fetched idea. The Black Knight has been facing men in duels across England, surely. He would have had to pick up  _ some  _ talent for it along the way. If he were miserable, he would never have gotten this far.

Aziraphale has to shake himself a little. Is he actually concerned? A little bit, perhaps. It’s a very dangerous game Crowley is playing here. 

It’s a game he’s playing well, however. Aziraphale doesn’t know how Crowley has been operating here, but he’s been doing a very good job of it. To Aziraphale’s amazement, it seems like everyone in the stands is just as anxious to see Crowley appear as he is. The doors open, and Crowley comes forward on his terrible beast. Tossing its head, the horse lets out a wavering cry, raising its front legs and kicking outward, before landing back down with a thunderous thud. For all the horse’s wild energy, there isn’t a moment where its rider doesn’t look utterly in control of it. It’s a simple display of power; an intimidation tactic that works well.

What follows, however, is much milder:

“Sir Aziraphale! You came.”

The greeting comes from Crowley as he trots forward towards the stands to see him. There’s murmurs through the crowd as he approaches, quiet awe and fear cascading like a ripple in a pond. Aziraphale tenses a little where he sits, and glances surreptitiously around them. 

“Of course I came. I’m a Knight of the Round Table; it’s expected,” he clarifies curtly. “I’m also expected to not converse with the likes of you.” 

“Oh, that’s not very chivalrous,” mocks Crowley coyly, lifting his visor for Aziraphale to see his face -- or some of it, anyway. Enough to catch the wicked grin that pulls at his cheeks. “Really, they’ll probably commend you for being so brave as to speak to me.” 

Aziraphale narrows his eyes, looking Crowley up and down suspiciously. “Yes, they are very frightened of you here,” he admits, and it’s clearly going to Crowley’s head. He’s much more cocky than he’s been in their other meetings over the years. He must be enjoying himself. “Which may not last very long when they discover you can’t joust.”

“What do you mean I can’t joust? I can joust,” Crowley counters immediately, and Aziraphale fixes him with a look. 

“Really?” Aziraphale asks disbelievingly, unsure if the possibility fills him with relief or with dread. “Without magic?” 

“Of course without magic,” affirms Crowley.

Aziraphale just watches him for a moment. It’s either confidence, or stubbornness, and he can’t tell which. Aziraphale debates, probably not for long enough, then he takes his risk: “Bet on it?” 

“Huh?” 

“Bet on it,” Aziraphale repeats boldly, nodding in the direction of Crowley’s opponent. “Beat him without magic.” 

Crowley follows the gesture. Really, the other knight doesn’t look like much of an opponent in the first place: he’s fumbling, slouching a little on his steed, but still. If he can hold his alcohol, he can certainly still joust. 

“I was already planning to do that,” Crowley boasts obnoxiously. “But say I take the bet: what’s the wager?”

“You lose, you leave,” Aziraphale says immediately, and Crowley rolls his yellow eyes. 

“That’s obvious. What do I get if I win?” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale pauses, frowns, and he realizes he isn’t actually sure what to say. He opens his mouth, but no noise comes out -- and regardless, anything he’d say would be muffled by the cries for the match to start. 

As he turns his horse around to return to his starting point, Crowley calls over his shoulder, his voice nearly lost in the din. “I’ll take the bet, angel, but what do I win?” 

Aziraphale flusters as he tries to come up with something. He can’t offer to leave England in exchange; he’s too duty-bound. What can he offer instead? He remembers the last time they met in Rome, and the gesture that Crowley seemed to appreciate so much.

“What about lunch?” he answers, on some stupid kneejerk instinct. 

At first, all Crowley does is laugh. “Seems a bit unfair,” he says, then he adds: “Lunch and a favour then.” 

Without waiting for Aziraphale to reply, he slams the visor of his helmet down, digs his heels into his horse’s flanks, and sets off to start his match. 

\--

And Crowley wins. 

The only thing that keeps it from being devastating is how utterly anticlimactic it is. There’s only one charge, since that’s all it takes: one hard blow and Crowley has knocked his opponent off his horse, and left him in no condition to get back up on it again. His squire calls for a withdrawal, and the crowd is too hushed to even boo. 

To his credit, Aziraphale’s jaw doesn’t drop -- but his eyes do go as wide as saucers. He’s stuck staring at Crowley’s haggard opponent: not mortally wounded by any means, but certainly too undone to mount his horse. 

How on Earth did Crowley learn to joust? 

“Right,” Crowley greets, as he approaches Aziraphale in the stands again. There’s barely a speck of dirt on his armour. “I know you said lunch. But how about dinner? There’s the banquet tonight.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale says and he means it sincerely, too distracted to really catch Crowley’s words.

“Dinner. Tonight. At the banquet for the competing knights,” Crowley repeats. “You’ll come with me?” 

“Hm? Right. Yes,” Aziraphale agrees on distracted instinct, watching as Sir Fentin’s aids come to drag him away from the stadium. When he finally hears Crowley properly, he shakes himself, blinking with a different kind of confusion. “What?” 

“Oh come on,” Crowley says, “you can’t say no. You made a bet. Besides…” Crowley glances around before he focuses on Aziraphale again. “I don’t really have anyone else to go with.” 

Neither does Aziraphale, to be perfectly honest. And it’s truly meant to be quite the elaborate spread, so he isn’t keen to miss the meal either. He frowns, just a little, and he adjusts himself in his seat. “I suppose I did make a bet,” he allows reluctantly. 

“Great. I’ll meet you there,” he says, heels kicking into his horse. “Dress to match?”

\--

Aziraphale does no such thing. He dresses in his usual pristine silver and white: cloaked with a fine fur around his shoulders. As the years pass, Aziraphale settles into the gradual adjustment to his clothing and overall demeanour rather nicely. The technical parts change, of course, but he’s beginning to comfortably maintain a general idea of himself. While the armour is stifling, he quite likes this part of it: the overall emphasis on elegance and chivalry among his fellow knights gives Aziraphale a particular sort of delight. 

In the back of his mind, he realizes that’s how he should feel when arm-in-arm with other angels… but that hasn’t been true for some time now.

There’s quite a crowd here, and Aziraphale can’t find Crowley within it. He’s not the only one looking, either. Everyone knows the Black Knight has advanced to the next round of competition, and is waiting to see just how bold he is: if he’ll really show his face here tonight. Aziraphale doubts anyone will make a scene and confront him here, but still… 

He finds that it worries him, just a little.

Aziraphale hears the signs of his arrival before he actually sees him. A murmur carries through the crowd as Crowley passes straight through it and directly towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale hasn’t yet seen him without his helmet on, and he’s grown his hair out since Rome. It’s not quite as wild as Mesopotamia, but it’s just as long, and as red as ever. Tonight he wears it in thick braids down either side of his head joining at the back, and Aziraphale can’t help but think that it suits him nicely. He’s dressed exactly as Aziraphale expected he would be: draped as ever in pure black, save for the deep, bold red on the underside of his cloak.

Like the belly of a snake.

“Sir Aziraphale,” Crowley greets, bowing at his middle, and Aziraphale returns the gesture stiffly. “Well met.” 

“Sir Crowley,” he says, glancing around them subtly as he does. “I do suppose we are well met.” 

“Is that a problem?” Crowley asks innocently, raising a brow above his glasses; they’re larger than the ones he wore in Rome, thickly rimmed where they’re perched on his nose and extending towards his temples. It’s harder for Aziraphale to see his eyes through them, though his tone of voice leaves little to the imagination.

“You know very well that it’s a problem,” Aziraphale chides, and Crowley waves his hand dismissively.

“Right, right, your knightly reputation,” he drawls dryly. “In my opinion, you’ve got it all backwards: everyone will be raving about your courage.” 

Huffing a disbelieving breath, Aziraphale scowls at him. “Because it’s in your demonic schedule to make me look courageous?” he says skeptically. “Not trying to make me look like a fool in front of Arthur?” 

Crowley makes a tsking noise at that, turning to glance at where the King and Queen are seated. Arthur isn’t watching them now, or maybe he’s just making a good show of hiding it. Shortly after, though, the King senses Crowley’s stare, since their eyes do meet (well, as much as they could under the glasses) and Crowley waves smugly at him. “Seems to me that you’re worrying a whole lot about Arthur,” Crowley observes thoughtfully, making a show of frowning as if in deep debate. “Instead of say… Gabriel and his whole legion of angels.” 

Just shy of slapping Crowley’s hand down, Aziraphale settles for gently but firmly applying pressure to his elbow instead. “Stop that -- and, what exactly are you implying?” Aziraphale asks. 

Turning back towards Aziraphale, Crowley smiles coyly.

“Have they checked yet?” 

Flustering, Aziraphale can’t help spluttering. “Is this--” Once he realizes how loud he’s become, he lowers his voice. “Is this about that arrangement you proposed? I’ve told you before; I'll have no part of it.” 

“Fine,” sighs Crowley, dropping the matter much more quickly than Aziraphale anticipates. “But the bet still stands. I’m owed dinner and a favour.” 

Adjusting his cloak with a scowl, Aziraphale sighs. Dinner is easily accomplished, since they’re surrounded by a luxurious array of food: no less than five full roasted pigs and fresh fruit and cheeses… it’s not the finest dining of the millennia, but Aziraphale can appreciate a full stomach no matter what. While they might look a bit odd to be dining together, Crowley is right to be unbothered; after the cursory stares, everyone else seems to have much better things to turn their attention to. It’s the latter half of Crowley’s statement that concerns him.

“Oh, you’re going to cash that in right away, are you?” he says, uncertain why he’s so surprised. “I thought you might keep that in your back pocket until you needed something dire.” 

For the first time since he’s seen him here, Crowley’s expression isn’t one of smug ease. Instead, Crowley is looking at him like he’s started speaking in tongues (which is not the most apt metaphor, as Aziraphale’s mouth would probably set aflame before he got a word out, and even if he did, Crowley would most definitely still understand him). 

“What?” Crowley asks thickly. 

“...the favour,” Aziraphale emphasizes. “What do you want me to do for you?” He hesitates, watching the confusion on Crowley’s face, and he clarifies: “...that  _ is _ what you meant?” 

“Aah…” Crowley drags the noise out, abruptly awkward, and he suddenly seems very interested in looking at anyone else other than Aziraphale.

The confusion is infectious, apparently, since Aziraphale finds himself sufficiently baffled. At least, to start he is. At first, his eyes narrow as he studies Crowley, who’s abruptly become very interested in the selection of olives on the table in front of them, then they widen again.

A  _ Favour _ .

“You don’t mean--” Aziraphale cuts himself short, and heat rises to his face. “You can’t be serious!” 

“It’s bad luck to ride without a Favour,” Crowley says evasively, as if that explains anything. “Dreadfully awful luck.”

“No!” Aziraphale says sharply, raising one finger in reprimand. “No. Firstly, I don’t even believe for a moment that’s true. Secondly, a being such as yourself has absolutely no reason to be so superstitious. Thirdly, you cannot expect the Black Knight to joust wearing a Favour from a Knight of the Round Table!” 

“Why not?” Crowley replies immediately, and Aziraphale gawks at him. 

“You know precisely why not!” he hisses. “What’s gotten into you? I’ve had enough of this--” 

“Angel--!” 

As Aziraphale turns, Crowley reaches for him, snatching him by the crook of his elbow to halt his leave. Really, Crowley doesn’t grab him very hard, and Aziraphale could shake him off -- should shake him off -- but something about the gesture strikes him, and he stops in his tracks.

Only belatedly, when he reflects on it, will he realize that it’s because despite how long they’ve known each other, Crowley has so rarely touched him. 

“Forget it then,” he says, more earnestly than Aziraphale anticipates. Slowly, he uncurls his hand from Aziraphale’s arm, flexing his fingers idly at his side. “Don’t go yet; you haven’t even eaten anything.” 

Aziraphale supposes it’s a fair point, and the feast does smell delicious. He’s developed a weak spot, in his time on earth. He almost relents on that alone, but then the music swells around them, changing tone, and the crowd becomes abuzz with sudden excitement.

Crowley’s excited too. Maybe he’s just eager to get Aziraphale off a sour subject; he can’t be sure, but he latches onto it immediately. “Even better,” he says, and once more he bends at his middle: his long hair cascading forward as he does. “How about a dance, my Lord?” 

Aziraphale’s throat feels tight, his heart plummeting down towards his stomach. At his sides, his hands form fists, and he stays stubbornly upright as Crowley bows before him. They’ve attracted stares again, and the realization grips Aziraphale tightly. His whole body slumps with abrupt defeat.

“You  _ are  _ doing this on purpose,” he concludes thickly, gazing down at Crowley miserably. He suddenly feels very stupid for thinking otherwise. For forgetting what Crowley is.

“Hm?” the demon intones, peering up at Aziraphale from his bow with a flash of yellow eyes. 

“You’re trying to ruin my reputation,” he accuses quietly. “Coming out here, wanting to eat together, asking for my Favour, asking me to dance when you  _ know _ I have to refuse you… you know how this makes me look.” Closing his eyes, Aziraphale tries to steel himself against the tremble in his throat. “You’re trying to ruin everything. You must know that this place is--”

It’s important to him: to sit on King Arthur’s court, to stand arm-in-arm with holy knights, who want to serve Her in their every action, who pride themselves on chivalry and Good. 

Something Aziraphale didn’t want to admit he was missing.

Without waiting for Crowley to answer, Aziraphale turns on his heel and leaves. It’s not hard to weave his way through the crowd towards the open night air, as the music seems to play too loudly in his ears. He knows how it must look and still he can’t help it. He can’t stand to be here with Crowley’s mockery for a moment longer.

\--

“Angel!” 

He hears the thunderous hooves before he hears the shout, as if there were any doubt of the rider that chases after him. Aziraphale hasn’t gotten very far on foot, yet Crowley has apparently seen fit to pursue him through the night on horseback. 

Really, Aziraphale should have also taken a horse. He was simply too flustered to think about it. Instead, he’s left trudging on the damp ground from the dining tent back towards Arthur’s castle -- and getting the hem of his cloak rather dirty in the process. Trying to bundle as much of it up in his arms, Aziraphale keeps his chin raised.

“I’ve nothing to say to you,  _ Good Sir  _ Knight,” Aziraphale tells him curtly, with cold emphasis on the words, keeping his eyes firmly forward as Crowley rides up beside him. 

“Oh, come on, come back,” Crowley entreats. “What did I do?” 

“What did you do?” Aziraphale parrots in disbelief, struggling and failing to keep hold of his cloak. The fact that his boots are getting stuck isn’t helping. “Aside from all the rest, you asked me to dance! You were an angel once; you know better than that!” 

Crowley makes a noise that sounds like the abrupt beginning and ending of several half formed sentences. “Agh,” he starts, before finally finding the use of his tongue. “I mean, you’ve been on Earth long enough,” Crowley ventures, although he doesn’t sound so sure of himself. “How was I supposed to know you didn’t loosen up?”

Loosening up is what Aziraphale hopes his boots will do, honestly, as he struggles to pry his foot out for his next step. “Oh, so you expect me to--” Aziraphale begins, but when he actually looks at Crowley, he cuts himself short. Crowley looks different atop his steed in his formal wear, for a start. Unbidden, something stirs at the image of him: his hair messed by the speed of his pursuit, framed all in the crimson of his cloak, chest heaving with adrenaline--

\--and golden eyes widely on display.

“What happened to your glasses?” Aziraphale asks, more softly than he intends. For a moment, the struggle with his boots is forgotten.

“You’ve got testy friends,” Crowley says, without giving Aziraphale a moment to pursue that subject. “Look: even if you don’t believe me, let me help you home. You’ll be here all night.” 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale tells him shortly, catching himself. ...And with his boots firmly sunk into the muck, he proceeds to absolutely fail to take another step. 

Crowley waits, utterly unmoving, as Aziraphale struggles to storm away from him, only managing to spread their distance by mere inches for what must be a solid two minutes. 

“Are you su--”

“Yes!” Aziraphale snaps instinctively, then with another wiggle of his heel, he has to accept defeat. “...no.”

With a tap of his heels, Crowley urges the horse forward to stand in front of Aziraphale, and he offers out his hand. 

“Hop on, angel.”

Quite reluctantly, he does, taking Crowley’s hand and hoisting himself up behind him. If his mind wasn’t so scattered, maybe Aziraphale would have anticipated trouble: the horse, given its origins, isn’t very keen on carrying an angelic presence on its demonic back. Aziraphale barely has time to get settled before it tosses its head, rearing up, and Aziraphale has to wrap his arms tightly around Crowley’s middle to stop himself from tumbling right off again. 

“Oi!” Crowley scolds sharply, yanking on its reins. “Cut it out. You want to be glue, you great stupid beast?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chastises, though given the startle, he’s also a little short of breath. 

“Horses all ought to be ours,” Crowley mutters, referring to all of Hell, of course. “They’re all miserable things.”

“My horse is rather lovely,” Aziraphale says proudly. 

Kicking his mount into motion, Crowley sneers. “Of course it is; anything you spend any amount of time with just picks up a heavenly aura by association.”

In the back of his mind, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley has ever thought to apply that same logic to himself, given their time spent together… but he decides that’s a thought better kept to himself.

Actually, there’s a lot of things he keeps to himself in this moment: like how it feels to have his chest pressed snug against Crowley’s back, arms wrapped around him. The warm smell of Crowley’s hair and the quiet of the night surrounding them. Neither of them break the silence, and it doesn’t feel tense. There’s an odd tranquility about it, and Aziraphale’s arms linger around Crowley’s waist even though he could’ve safely let go for quite some time now.

When they reach the castle, Aziraphale braces himself on Crowley’s elbow as he dismounts. Smoothing out his clothes, he lets out a puff of an exhale. 

“I suppose I should thank you,” he says, once again finding himself looking up at Crowley against the moon. “despite all of your fiendishness tonight.”

“ _ Fiendishness _ ,” Crowley repeats mockingly, and Aziraphale ignores him.

“I don’t entirely believe you’re not up to something bigger than you’ll admit,” he continues. “And I certainly can’t let you continue with the tournament unchecked; it would be unethical. However…” Aziraphale straightens his shoulders, and he gives a nod. “Thank you.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches, and Aziraphale can’t quite puzzle out the expression. He seems suddenly so subdued: smiling faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something swells up in Aziraphale’s throat, and with nothing better to do, he begins to fuss with his hands. 

Oh.

Aziraphale glances at where his fingers toy with the fine gold of his ring, and his chest tightens. 

He did make a bet, didn’t he? Isn’t he bound to his word? 

“Here, before you go--” Aziraphale says, approaching the side of his horse and reaching for Crowley’s hand. He surrenders it surprisingly easy, and Aziraphale idly wonders at that: how Crowley doesn’t think to question or recoil from him. 

While the ring has been carried with him since Eden, and is adorned with angel’s wings, there’s nothing holy about it. It doesn’t scald Crowley’s skin as Aziraphale places it on his finger. In fact, Crowley’s quite cold altogether, though Aziraphale suspects that’s more to do with the frigid night air than any aspect of his snake-like nature. There’s certainly not any of the other cliche things one might associate with a demon: no sharp claws or coarse skin. In fact, Crowley’s hands are actually rather smooth, strongly defined by the hard bumps of his knuckles that the ring almost doesn’t pass over. Aziraphale lingers on that, and his touch lingers as well, holding Crowley’s slender hand in his. 

“My Favour for you to take into the competition ahead, my good Sir Knight,” Aziraphale announces with utmost formality, and he clears his throat awkwardly as he adds. “I really am quite fond of it, so I do expect it back.” 

Crowley doesn’t speak right away, but he does lift his hand, flexing his fingers as if to test how well the ring fits. As he inspects it more closely, Aziraphale can’t help but notice how the gold compliments the colour of Crowley’s eyes. He still doesn’t speak, and Aziraphale wonders where he’s misstepped. 

“So we’re even then,” Aziraphale continues, feeling as though he’s pushing. “On the bet.”

“Mh? Yes. Right.”

Crowley fidgets distractedly, only giving Aziraphale a fleeting glance before he puts his hands back on the reins of his horse. “Good night, Sir Aziraphale.” Crowley says, turning his horse back the direction that he came, and Aziraphale frowns as he watches him go.

“Good night,” he calls back belatedly, certain that there’s something he’s missed as he waves into the night.

\--

The next day, in Arthur’s castle, Aziraphale paces restlessly.

Crowley’s next match will be here before he knows it, and after the match comes another dinner. Aziraphale has underestimated his demonic counterpart, and he can’t let himself be taken off guard again. He’s gotten too used to being civil with Crowley, and forgotten that he can still be wily -- probably he can’t  _ help _ being wily; it’s part of his nature. 

Nevertheless, Aziraphale has to be prepared this time, so he called in a favour (with a lowercase f) of his own. 

“Sir Aziraphale?” 

“Oh, good day, Sir Lancelot,” Aziraphale greets beamingly, bowing his head. “Thank you for meeting me today.”

“Of course,” Lancelot replies, and Aziraphale can’t help smiling hugely at him. It must seem foolish, but Aziraphale is terribly fond of the fellow. He’s truly a wonderful knight, and an even better man. One might call him Perfect if not for… well, the infidelity, but Aziraphale’s heart goes out to him and (especially since there is no demonic influence involved) can he really help who he loves? He certainly inspires Aziraphale, and endears him even further towards humanity. 

“You wanted to ask me a favour?” 

“Yes, oh, and it’s dreadfully embarrassing I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replies with a wince, squeezing his hands together like a little prayer. “I know you must get asked to do so much already…”

Shaking his head, Lancelot waves his hand as if to dismiss the worry from the air itself. “It’s quite alright, Sir Aziraphale,” he assures him. “What can I do for you?” 

Adjusting his posture a little, Aziraphale avoids meeting Lancelot’s eyes as he speaks, choosing to glance up and admire the stonework above his head instead. “Well. You see, I… I need to learn to dance.” 

Of all the replies Aziraphale anticipates, it’s not for King Arthur’s most true and noble knight to  _ laugh  _ at him. 

“Sir Lancelot!” chides Aziraphale, immediately flustering, and Lancelot quickly reaches to touch his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, Sir Aziraphale,” he assures him earnestly, the chuckle still carrying in his throat. He quickly tries to get ahold of himself, although a fond smile remains in the corner of his mouth.. “I just expected… well, after last night, I thought whatever you’d ask of me might have something to do with the Black Knight.” 

“Oh, but this is about the Black Knight,” Aziraphale says too readily, then quickly corrects himself: “that is… if this Sir Crowley is indeed the Black Knight.” 

Lancelot just watches him for a moment, clearly weighing his options in his head before he speaks. “Sir Aziraphale, I don’t want to concern you,” he says. “I’ve mentioned this to Arthur and he fears that it might cause a panic should it spread.” The easiness of his nature seems to quickly turn troubled as he speaks, and a frown touches his handsome brow. “However, I know I wasn’t the only one to see it.” 

Oh no. Aziraphale’s heart pounds in his chest, and his worst fears may be confirmed. Crowley did his job too well: they all think Aziraphale is conspiring with the Black Knight and that the whole Round Table is compromised. Despite the dread filling his chest, he keeps his composure. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale says innocently. 

“No, of course you wouldn’t know,” Lancelot says, much to Aziraphale’s confusion -- and tentative relief, but mostly confusion. “When you left the banquet, I tried to stop him from pursuing you. I am an honourable man and would not lay violent hands on him, but when he resisted me… he lost his glasses in the scuffle, and I saw him for what he is.” 

Oh dear. Aziraphale squirms a little, and he feigns naivety. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“Arthur doubts me, but I know what I saw,” Lancelot states decisively.“The eyes of a dragon.”

Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. He doesn’t mean to; it just catches him so off guard, and he quickly tries to cover his mouth with his hand to stifle it. 

“Sir Lancelot,” he tries, offering him a weak grin. “You can’t mean that… you truly believe that Sir Crowley is a  _ dragon _ ?”

“I do,” insists Lancelot firmly. “I don’t expect you to believe me, Sir Aziraphale, but I do want to warn you. Such creatures have powers beyond our understanding and I...” He seems to weaken a little, and his face becomes terribly sincere. Reaching out, he places a hand kindly against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I would not like to see you fall prey to such a thing.” 

Aziraphale can’t help feeling touched, even if the concern is misplaced. Well. Is it misplaced? Dragon or demon, Crowley  _ is _ dangerous. He simply has never been a direct threat to Aziraphale himself. ...Ever. Which is a fact that sticks stubbornly out to him. Maybe that doesn’t matter; Crowley is an enemy of Heaven, and he doesn’t need to attack Aziraphale directly. Their rivalry is more complicated than that.

Still. 

What’s even more pressing: no angel of heaven has uttered such concern for Aziraphale’s wellbeing in his time here on Earth.

“Thank you for the warning,” Aziraphale says sincerely. “But truly… I’m not asking you to slay any dragons today; it’s just the dancing. I’ve two left feet I’m afraid.” 

Lancelot sighs, smiling and shaking his head, and he offers out his hands. “All right. Follow me.” 

\--

The sun shines on the day of the second match, and Aziraphale finds himself anxious, his hand continuously reaching to fuss with a piece of jewelry that he no longer has. He winces at himself, and he wonders if he’s made some terrible mistake. 

When Crowley emerges, the crowd rumbles in quiet awe, and Aziraphale stands up in his seat, approaching the edge of the stands. He intends to meet Crowley, but he’s interrupted first. 

“Sir Aziraphale, good day,” greets Crowley’s opponent. He’s a tall, lean gentleman. Nice looking in the face, if not a little boring, and Aziraphale’s mind rushes to try to pull a name from a distant inventory of knights. 

“Oh, good day, Sir… Leonard!” he replies, hoping the delay didn’t seem too telling. Casually as he can muster, he leans this way and that, trying to catch sight of Crowley. “I heard you’d be competing today. Good luck!” 

“Yes, well,” Sir Leonard says, “Quite! That's why I’m here, in fact--” 

The hideous sound of Crowley’s horse cuts Leonard off, and Crowley is soon beside him. “Hello, my lords,” Crowley greets smugly, and Aziraphale winces at him. “Sir Aziraphale.” Crowley bows to him, before he focuses on his opponent, not so subtly lacking the same bow he offered Aziraphale. “Sir _ Leonard _ . I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“We have not,” Leonard replies coldly. “I am Sir Leonard of King Arthur’s England. Where do you hail from, good Knight?”

“Oh, Nohwhyre,” Crowley answers, although with much less enthusiasm than when Aziraphale first heard him utter it -- as if he’s slowly begun to regret the joke the longer it goes on. 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it,” Leonard says. 

“Really? You know…” Crowley shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, gesturing too much with one hand. He glances at Aziraphale as if for some kind of help, and receives none. “Nohwhyre… it’s a small place. Easy to miss. It’s, uh, in Pattykular.” 

Slowly craning his head to gaze up at Crowley, Aziraphale’s voice goes very flat. “Nohwhyre,” Aziraphale repeats very slowly, unable to help himself, with a stare that he hopes can pierce straight through Crowley’s pitch black helmet. “... _ In Pattykular _ ?” 

A tense silence follows, where Aziraphale maintains his cold stare, and Crowley does his best job at avoiding it with the occasional wiggle atop his horse. Eventually, Leonard frees them with a cough. 

“I’ll be off to my station,” Leonard says, speaking directly to Aziraphale and ignoring Crowley altogether. “If I... may be so bold, I would appreciate your support for when I ride, Sir Aziraphale.”

“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale replies merrily, thinking nothing of it and flashing him a smile. The man is nice enough, but he certainly doesn’t know when to take his leave, does he? “Good luck again!” 

Leonard’s face falls, and he looks ready to speak again, but instead he merely bids farewell and urges his steed away. As he goes, Crowley lingers, letting out a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you the heartbreaker,” Crowley teases. 

“What?” Aziraphale says, genuinely confused for a moment before the implication settles into place. “Oh, no.” Aziraphale laughs a little, shaking his head. “It’s just polite chivalry; I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Chivalry,” parrots Crowley, raising the visor of his helmet at last. “He wanted your Favour, you daft angel.”

Shoulders stiffening, Aziraphale scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scolds. “That isn’t so. Besides, I...” Aziraphale adjusts his footing uneasily. “I already gave mine to you. Doesn’t seem fair.” Surreptitiously, he glances at Crowley. “You  _ are  _ wearing it?” 

“No. Well. Yes. Not under these,” Crowley says, lifting his gauntleted hands. “Doesn’t quite fit. I’ve, uh… put it on a chain; got it under here instead.” 

Crowley taps one finger to his breastplate, and Aziraphale feels his own chest twist miserably. 

Daft angel, he thinks firmly to himself, daft indeed.

“If Sir Leonard knew, it’d sure start a fire under him,” Crowley muses, glancing towards where his opponent waits. “You say how noble these knights are but they really are keen on the dramatics. Bet he’d love the excuse to rip my armour open and get his hands on it. Save you from me like a blushing maiden,” he draws the consonants out on _blushing_ , tongue between his teeth. “All that ridiculous nonsense.” 

Crowley is joking, but Aziraphale can’t help but follow that trail of thought too far. Crowley is content to be here stirring up mayhem, but the truth is, the knights will steadily get bolder and bolder. Especially if more than just Lancelot saw Crowley’s eyes, and if they all begin to believe some foolish story about what Crowley is… he could be in real danger.

“Well,” Aziraphale says stiffly, refusing to rise to the bait. His mouth feels very dry. “... so long as I get it back in one piece. So I do hope you ride carefully.” His hand clench restlessly at his sides and he can’t help himself from speaking, his smile wavering. “I’d hate for something to happen to it.” 

Crowley watches him, eyes unblinking, and Aziraphale feels utterly, hopelessly foolish. 

Trumpets sound: calling Crowley away to start the match. Aziraphale watches him go and he watches him win, unable to name the emotion that fills his chest up, fit to burst.

\--

When Aziraphale waits at tonight’s banquet, he feels mildly more prepared. Anxious, perhaps, for a reason that he can’t give a single name, but he’s ready this time. If Crowley seeks to embarrass him again, it isn’t going to happen like the demon thinks. 

There’s another, nagging thought in the back of his mind: that humiliation was never Crowley’s goal to begin with, which makes all of this a very elaborate apology for storming out on him.

Best not to think about it that way.

Aziraphale spots him first and he moves towards the entrance to meet him. Crowley hasn’t changed much from the first night. His hair is perhaps a little wilder, and his clothing just as sharp, but Aziraphale can’t help but notice the absence of gloves… in order to bear the very familiar ring around his finger. 

Maybe it isn’t obvious to anyone else, but Aziraphale has trouble fixing his eyes anywhere else. 

“Sir Crowley,” Aziraphale greets with a bow, stifling a smile. “Good evening.”

It could be that Aziraphale takes him off guard, or that Crowley didn’t see him coming, but it could be something else entirely. It could be that seeing Aziraphale gives him pause for an entirely separate reason: that the elegant finery of his clothing, pristine white edged with familiar gold, paints Aziraphale in a way that leaves Crowley momentarily with a loss for words -- and if not the whole ensemble, at least it would be the cloak: cascading gold down Aziraphale’s back, but bearing royal red on its underside. 

“You’ve matched me,” Crowley utters thickly, and Aziraphale grins, gripping the edges of his cloak and gesturing it about a little.

“Yes! Just a little. Is it too much?” he asks. “It wasn’t a part of the bet, strictly speaking, but you had mentioned it, and I thought I ought to honour it.” Crowley just keeps staring, and Aziraphale’s shoulders sink. “Oh, it  _ is _ too much…”

“Well, you can’t change now,” Crowley points out hurriedly, glancing toward the crowd. “Not without drawing even more attention to yourself.”

It’s less than subtle now: plenty of eyes are on them, and Aziraphale keeps himself steady. He has nothing to flinch from tonight, and no one is about to see him daunted by his present company. “Right you are,” Aziraphale says, “let’s have a seat then, shall we?” 

Crowley follows him to a table, smirking as he does. The banquet tonight is even more lavish than the last, and there’s a whole pig waiting here at a table meant for two. “If I may be bold, my good sir knight,” Crowley drawls, in parody of formality and reminiscent of Sir Leonard earlier. “You’re being very agreeable tonight.” 

“I am,” boasts Aziraphale proudly as he settles in. “I’m in a much better position than I was when we last met, and I won’t be caught out of my element again.” 

“Out of your element?” Crowley raises a brow, lounging back in his seat. “That’s funny. I figured you’d love it here.”

“Oh, I  _ do, _ ” Aziraphale says, sincerely and a bit too quickly. Clearing his throat, he collects his napkin, giving it a little flourish to shake out the fold before laying it across his lap. “That isn’t what I meant; I’m very happy here.” 

Draping his arm over the back of his chair, Crowley smirks. “Why wouldn’t you be?” he asks. “With the chivalry, all the fine formalities, the emphasis on God and God’s relics, the holy wars…”

“Not so much that last one,” Aziraphale corrects mildly. “But you’re right; I do enjoy being a knight. It feels…” Aziraphale smiles faintly to himself. “It’s a good feeling -- and you must enjoy it too, surely.” Aziraphale gestures towards him. “Why, you learned to joust!” 

Crowley makes a face, scrunching his nose a little. “Yeah. Well. That wasn’t really a passion project,” he explains, scratching idly at his jaw. “I got told to come here and stir up trouble, and it was remarkably easy. I only had to do a few minor ill-deeds and then the word of the Black Knight spread like the plague. So I really didn’t have to do… much of anything. So, in the meantime, I learned to joust.” 

Halfway to picking out a fork to use, Aziraphale pauses, and he looks at Crowley very sternly. “You’ve gotten good enough to win this tournament… because you’ve been bored?” he clarifies slowly. 

“Well, I had a few guys: outcast knights, oathbreakers, you know. They liked having a big scary name to follow, so I said: sure! Hop on! Then I didn’t have anything for the lot of them to do! So… they taught me jousting. Which, coincidentally, worked out when downstairs wanted me to ruin this little tournament.” Crowley leans forward, glancing at the food on the table, and the more he stares at the pig, the deeper his frown becomes. “This is a little morbid, isn’t it? You have to hack it all apart yourself? Why do they have to leave its face on?” 

Closing his eyes for a moment, Aziraphale takes in a deep breath and very slowly releases it. “Unbelievable,” he utters lowly. 

“Is it, isn’t it?” Crowley agrees, cautiously hovering his knife over the head of the pig. “They can’t expect you to eat it like that, can they? I mean. Personally,  _ I _ could eat it: with the whole… unhinged jaw.” As he says the words, he moves said jaw far more than necessary, as if he’s honestly considering it, and he spins a finger towards his face in demonstration.

“No,  _ you’re _ unbelievable,” Aziraphale corrects in a huff. “Some of these men have been training their whole lives!” 

“Well then they can’t be doing a very good job of it, can they?” Crowley reasons simply, plucking the apple from the pig’s mouth and tossing it up and down in his palm. “I’m not even feeling very challenged, if I’m honest with you.” 

“That’s not the point,” Aziraphale counters. “You can’t win!” 

“But I probably will,” Crowley replies, utterly unapologetic. “The last match is against some minor lord of quite a small lot of land. Backwoods type. Leonard definitely saw more action than him and he swooned over my lance like he wanted you to  _ swoooon _ over him.” 

Heat rising to his face, Aziraphale scowls at him. He opens his mouth, almost objecting on kneejerk instinct, then a realization comes together that’s much more pressing. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. “Not the jousting itself, really, or even being a knight… but you like having a reputation, don’t you? You like to be frightening; you like to win.” 

Crowley makes an exaggerated shrug, holding his hands upward. “Maybe I like to do a good job,” he replies. “Is it my fault the legions of hell don’t care enough to hand out shiny medals? Really, are you so surprised that a demon likes to be a demon?”

“No. I mean. Yes. But -- not like that,” Aziraphale struggles uselessly for words. “This is different.” But he just can’t find the words to express it. 

Somehow, in all of their time together, a stubborn part of Aziraphale figured that Crowley wasn’t entirely Like That; that Crowley always felt that he didn’t quite belong in Hell… that Crowley was  _ different _ from other demons. Which was why they could converse the way they did, and how they managed to stay so persistently in each other’s orbits. That they related to one another. 

“It’s different for you too, isn’t it?” Crowley counters smoothly, tossing the apple from one hand to the other, and back again. “Feels like filling up a gap, doesn’t it? Patching a hole you didn’t know you had?” 

Aziraphale’s stomach twists, and he swallows thickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Grinning with too many teeth, Crowley takes one firm, deliberate bite from the apple, chewing it obnoxiously and speaking with his mouth full. “You do.” 

For a moment, they simply stay like that. It takes a change of tune from the orchestra to snap Aziraphale’s attention away, and in a very rare moment -- quite unlike himself -- Aziraphale sets his silverware down without having touched his food. 

As Aziraphale approaches the other side of the table, Crowley leans back in his chair, looking decidedly wary. Aziraphale understands the feeling, since he doesn’t quite trust himself right now either. Bending especially low with his next bow, Aziraphale offers out a hand. 

“I do believe I was quite rude to you when we last met,” he says apologetically. “If you’d allow it, I’d like to make it up to you.” 

Frustratingly hard to read behind his glasses, Crowley doesn’t budge. “Angels don’t dance,” he says cautiously, as if he’s afraid of being tricked, and Aziraphale smiles.

“This one does,” he answers. “A bit. I just learned the steps as of today … and sometimes I still get it wrong, so you’ll have to deal with it.” 

That startles a laugh out of Crowley, and his grin spreads widely. “It would be my pleasure, good sir knight,” he says. “And not to worry; I know all about doing the wrong thing.” 

Aziraphale clucks his tongue and Crowley laughs again, leading him away by the arm to the center of the dance floor. It takes a moment for all of the couples to arrange themselves, and even that brief time is enough to instill a flicker of doubt within Aziraphale. Crowley waits before him draped in black, and Aziraphale stands opposite of him, looking like some strange mirror in white. They stand out terribly, rather than the complementary pairs that surround them, all dressed in practically the same fabric. 

It’s alright; it’s come too far for him to back down now. 

It all starts with a bow, and when Aziraphale straightens up again, he gets full view of how hugely Crowley is grinning. Despite himself, the expression is infectious, and Aziraphale adopts a smile of his own as he takes Crowley’s opposite hand in his. 

He feels the warm metal of the ring on Crowley’s finger as he holds his hand, and something flickers in his chest. 

“You’re a quick study.” Crowley notes, as they circle each other, and Aziraphale’s chest raises proudly. Crowley folds his free arm neatly behind himself and, noticing his own arm just awkwardly dangling, Aziraphale quickly mimics him. 

“I worked hard,” he says, which is true… but given a moment, he adds: “It is awfully simple, though, isn’t it?” 

Really, as far as learning dances go, Aziraphale considers himself lucky. The steps aren’t very complicated, and it’s little more than an odd manner of walking set to a beat. Angels don’t dance -- but is it so far-fetched that an angel can sway a certain way, bend his knee here and there, or walk in a slow circle while holding hands? That’s really all it comes down to: sway, hands, spin, sway, spin, bend, hands, sway… until he gets the order of it all turned around, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

“Besides, I had a wonderful teacher,” Aziraphale continues, glancing out to the crowd in hopes to find him. When he does, he grins and waves, before the dance requires him to offer that hand back out to Crowley again. 

Crowley, who sees the other knight returning the gesture, and snatches Aziraphale’s hand far more firmly this time. He pulls Aziraphale closer than before, in order to utter his accusation. “Lancelot?!” he spits in an undertone. “You’ve gotten dancing lessons from  _ Lancelot _ ?” 

“Yes! He’s a marvelous fellow,” Aziraphale says firmly, just a little bit offended. “Why does that matter?” After a moment, Aziraphale winces sympathetically. “Is it because of your glasses?” 

“No, it’s not the glasses!” he hisses in that way Crowley often does if his temper gets away from him. He catches it just as easily as Aziraphale, and Aziraphale can see him press his tongue against the inside of his cheek -- maybe testing for a fork. 

“He shouldn’t have gotten in my way,” Crowley says, giving Lancelot a sideways glance. “Why isn’t he competing, anyway?” 

“You  _ were _ being wicked,” Aziraphale reminds lightly, and he clears his throat. “Well. I believe he wanted to -- but I think he’s decided against it, for the sake of discretion.” 

“I apologized, okay? I swear… you’re charmed by all this but I think most of these proud and noble knights just go around looking for someone being ‘unchivalrous’ as an excuse to knock some teeth out,” Crowley mutters bitterly, and he focuses his attention back on Aziraphale. “Is that so? I thought he was determined.” 

Almost missing a step, Aziraphale catches himself quickly. “I do believe he was,” he explains. “But there’s this whole business between him and… you know.” 

Crowley does know. His gaze drifts to Arthur and Guinevere, and Aziraphale lowers his voice. “Well, he’s gotten nervous about being too bold,” he continues. “I think he’s worried that they’re finally running out of time.” 

As he says it, he regrets it. He isn’t sure why, but once the words leave his mouth, he aches to take them back. 

“That’s a shame,” Crowley says, oddly somber. “I’m told he’s quite fond of her.” 

“...yes,” Aziraphale agrees quietly, that strange feeling doubling as he does: like cracks spreading over ice when it’s tread upon. “It’s just. Well. People are bound to notice these sorts of things, you see.”

Crowley looks at him. Crowley, with his hand wearing his ring, with his cloak matched to Aziraphale’s cloak, with only one partner he’s ever shown interest in dancing with. 

_ They’d check _ , he reminds himself miserably,  _ people are bound to notice _ \-- 

Aziraphale feels suddenly very small, very foolish, and very sad.

The music slows to a stop, and Aziraphale is too downcast to even feel relieved. They stand opposite each other, exchanging one last bow as applause spreads throughout the room. When Crowley starts to straighten up, Aziraphale does the same -- only to quickly realize that no one else following suit. There’s one last step to the dance that they’ve both neglected: every other pair surrounding them has one half extend their hand, and the other graces it with a kiss. 

Oh.

A lump forms in Aziraphale’s throat, and moving any part of his body suddenly feels beyond his reach. Lancelot hadn’t mentioned this at all -- why didn’t he?

“Angel?” 

Crowley has lowered himself back into a bow, the yellow of his eyes showing through as he gazes up at him and holds his ringed hand forward. 

Aziraphale’s shoulders sink. It’s terrible, isn’t it? How could he possibly react any other way? Aziraphale places his hand in Crowley’s and lets it be drawn up towards the warm pressure of Crowley’s lips. 

That detail sticks out: he somehow always assumed Crowley would be colder. 

(Why has he considered it before? How often? Since when? Since…)

“Ah,” utters Aziraphale, smiling weakly, struggling to find something -- anything -- to say to him. “Thank you.” 

More than once, Aziraphale wishes for the absence of Crowley’s glasses, and now the desire is stronger than ever. He lingers where he is, for an amount of time that Aziraphale can’t coherently measure, before he finally straightens up again. He releases Aziraphale’s hand, but not before his thumb lightly traces across the bump of his knuckles.

The crowd drifts from the dance floor, and Aziraphale tentatively takes a few steps back towards Crowley. “Would you like to finish dinner?” he asks, trying to laugh a little, but the joke feels forced. “Not like we really started it…” 

His brow furrowing, Crowley rubs at the side of his neck with his palm. “You know, I think I might call it a night, actually,” Crowley replies tensely. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, and he widens his smile to smother any other expression that may try to sneak through. “Quite! Well… thank you, again, for a wonderful dance. I hope I wasn’t too embarrassing of a partner.” 

“No,” Crowley sighs, tilting his head as he gazes at him. “You’re stubbornly good all the time, aren’t you?” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to respond, only to realize he doesn’t know how. Soon, he loses his chance, since Crowley sufficiently distracts him. He moves his hand from his neck and examines it instead, touching Aziraphale’s ring with his fingertips. He lingers there, as if debating, before he pulls it free, and he offers it back to him.

“Oh! No, don’t be silly,” Aziraphale says quickly, reaching and touching Crowley’s wrist lightly -- then very quickly drawing back again. “You’ve one more match tomorrow. The big one! That’s when you’ll need the most luck, isn’t it?” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I am,” Aziraphale answers immediately.

Crowley just watches him for a moment, somehow piercing even with the glasses, before he relents and places the ring back on his hand. He bows in farewell, and Aziraphale watches him leave, unconsciously touching the spot on his hand where he’d placed his lips. 

\--

Even after Crowley leaves, Aziraphale lingers at the banquet. Too keenly aware of Crowley’s observations, the suckling pig does seem far too morbid to indulge, but there’s plenty of other fine dining to be had… though it isn’t delighting Aziraphale as it ought to be. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t know why, even as much as he wants to. He’s too keenly aware of Crowley in general, and he can’t puzzle it all out. 

Why did he leave? 

“May I join you?”

Aziraphale perks up, and his smile wavers a little as he actually identifies the voice. “Sir Lancelot,” he says, and he shuffles a little self consciously in his seat. “Do I look so lonely?” 

“Perhaps,” Lancelot says, settling in across from him regardless. “You do look a little worse for wear, but that isn’t why I’m here.” 

Aziraphale sets his fork down, waiting, and Lancelot sighs. “Sir Crowley rides for the final joust tomorrow, and… much like Sir Crowley is not who he says he is, neither is his opponent.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale simply stares at Lancelot; to be honest, he’s too hung up on the stubborn belief that Crowley is a dragon to really take in the implication. Then it comes together, and Aziraphale’s chest tightens. “You--” he starts, then he cuts himself off, lowering his voice. “I thought you weren’t competing.”

“Sir Lancelot isn’t competing,” Lancelot says, and he shrugs a little. “Technically.” 

Aziraphale isn’t so sure why he’s surprised. In a different context, he might be endeared. Lancelot wants this prize for Guinevere so badly, he’s going to great lengths to win it -- and quite honestly, he is a bit struck by the romance of it all: Lancelot disguising himself for the battle ahead. However, something else takes priority: “Why tell me this?”

Lancelot sighs deeply, seeming to look through Aziraphale for a moment rather than at him. 

“I never want to make myself a hypocrite,” he tells him sincerely. “I gave you my warning, and it must’ve sounded much like the same warnings I’ve been given more than once.” The smile he offers is full of sympathy, but it barely reaches his eyes. “I ignored them too.” 

“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Aziraphale confesses quietly. 

Lancelot shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says. “Tomorrow. I will be riding against the Black Knight -- and I do believe that the Black Knight is no man at all, but something far worse.” 

Reaching across the table, Lancelot lays his hand on Aziraphale’s forearm. “I care deeply for you, Sir Aziraphale, and my heart does ache for you. To be honest, for a moment I feared you might be bewitched, but… tonight seemed rather the opposite didn’t it?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes, and Lancelot rises from the table, continuing before he can speak. “Attendance for tomorrow’s match will be greater than any before, and should something happen… something terrible, and the Black Knight is exposed for what he is in front of all of England, then I must strike him down. I am duty bound as a Holy Knight to vanquish any evil that I find. Do you understand, Sir Aziraphale?”

Heartbeat pounding, Aziraphale’s voice finally catches up to him. “Any evil that you find,” he repeats. “And if you… can’t find him?” 

Lancelot smiles, very sadly, and he bows his head. “Good night, Sir Aziraphale.”

\--

When Aziraphale first storms from the banquet, he worries about finding Crowley in time. The night is young, but there’s hundreds of people here, and he can’t go around poking in every tent he passes. Even on his horse, it’ll take hours--

\--unless, of course, there’s only one single black tent, pitched far, far away from everyone else’s. 

Clicking his tongue, Aziraphale sets his horse off at a gallop. When he reaches his destination, the poor thing doesn’t take kindly to being hitched right next to Crowley’s demonic steed, but it will have to do. He can only hope that one of them won’t run off.

“Crowley!” he says urgently, pushing through the flap of his tent without any discretion. “I--”

Crowley isn’t sleeping -- doesn’t need to sleep, really -- but he’s out on his bedspread nonetheless. Lounging on his back, Aziraphale seems to have caught him in thought: holding the ring above his face, cradled gently between his thumb and index finger. 

When Aziraphale comes through, Crowley palms the ring quickly, sitting up to greet him with his yellow eyes right out in the open -- the exact sort of thing Lancelot was warning him about. “Aziraphale? What are you--”

“Look, there’s no time, get dressed,” Aziraphale tells him, and he already starts buzzing around Crowley’s tent, grabbing things and shoving them into bags without care or reason. “You have to leave.”

“Leave?!” Crowley repeats, glaring up at him. “Now you’re just being lazy. If you can’t come up with a good way to thwart my winning this tournament, showing up and telling me to go isn’t going to cut it.”

“What? No! This isn’t about that!” Aziraphale says shortly, pausing in packing to look at Crowley directly. “Listen. When you left, I spoke with Lancelot--”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley groans. “Oh, let me tell you, I am  _ sick _ of Lancelot--”

“He’s your opponent!” Aziraphale snaps impatiently. “Are you listening, Crowley? You’re going to be facing King Arthur’s greatest knight. You can’t expect to win!” 

“Well, obviously not; it’s right in his name, isn’t it?” Crowley says dully, with a remarkable lack of concern as he leans back on his bed. He slides the ring back onto his finger, spinning it idly as he continues. “It’s not Lance-a-little, or Lance-sometimes, or Lance-only-if-given-no-other-option.” 

Aziraphale fumes, and Crowley narrows his eyes. “What? What’s got you so bothered then? Isn’t this good news for you? You want me to lose!”

“Lose, yes,” Aziraphale relents, “Not die.” 

“Die?” Crowley laughs disbelievingly, showing his teeth. “You keep saying he’s so honourable, you really think he’s just going to kill me in front of a whole crowd of people?” 

“If a whole crowd of people gets a good look at you and start chanting for your head? Yes!” Aziraphale persists. “People saw your eyes at the banquet and they--” Aziraphale flusters. This is Dire, but saying it out loud just sounds like foolishness. “They think you’re a  _ dragon _ .”

His fears are confirmed when Crowley proceeds to just laugh harder. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” he declares. “They actually think I’m a dragon? A dragon! I’m a  _ demon _ . What a great lot of idiots your Round Table’s turned out to be.” 

“Crowley, please,” entreats Aziraphale earnestly. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Maybe listen to yourself and wonder why I’m not taking it seriously,” Crowley taunts dryly, lazily stretching his arms up beneath his head. 

Scowling, Aziraphale drops a half-stuffed bag at the edge of Crowley’s bed. “All right, maybe it is a little foolish,” Aziraphale admits, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re in danger. If you win, you have to remove your helmet in front of Arthur and when they see you for what you are…”

Aziraphale edges closer, clasping his hands together. “Arthur will demand your head, and Lancelot will have to listen to him. Lancelot is a Holy Knight, and… and to be honest with you, I don’t know how much Heavenly power someone like him might have.” Really, that seems like an oversight. “He could seriously hurt you! Or...” 

Aziraphale trails off, watching Crowley’s face, and he recollects himself. “I can’t let you ride to your death, Crowley,” he tells him firmly. “I just can’t. I won’t let it happen.”

For a moment Crowley stays very still, and he gazes up at Aziraphale before he slowly straightens up and onto his knees. There’s a strange smoothness to his movement, almost too fluid as he approaches the edge of the bed where Aziraphale stands. Serpentine -- the word clicks firmly into place, and Aziraphale has to correct himself: maybe not misplaced at all.

Aziraphale holds his ground, even as Crowley reaches for him. One hand finds Aziraphale’s wrist, and the other rests on his chest, bracing there as he leans into him: back curved into a slow, steep arch. 

He knows what’s happening even before Crowley climbs a little higher, sliding his chest against Aziraphale’s chest as he goes. He pulls himself up, one arms coming to rest around Aziraphale’s shoulders, while the other hand buries into the soft, short strands of his hair. 

In that moment, Crowley could have asked Aziraphale for almost anything, and Aziraphale is quite certain it would have been impossible to deny him. What Crowley asks, however, is all too easily obliged -- but the simplicity of the favour doesn’t dampen the heat it sends flooding through Aziraphale’s chest.

“Will you say my name again?” Crowley asks, the request a murmur spoken into the corner of Aziraphale’s lips. 

Aziraphale’s entire body nearly buckles. Both hands grip tight on either side of Crowley’s face, burying deep into his hair, and he pulls Crowley flush against him, smothering his mouth under his own. “Crowley,” he says, between feverish kisses, over and over. “Crowley, Crowley--”

He doesn’t get the space to say it a fourth time. Crowley fills Aziraphale’s parted lips with his tongue, delving deep, and Aziraphale can’t help but notice the lack of a forked tip. Aziraphale moans, the noise muffled by the kiss, and Crowley’s response is a laugh that vibrates all the way down Aziraphale’s throat. The sound makes his skin heat, but it doesn’t feel mocking -- quite the opposite: Crowley seems to be deliriously delighted. 

Aziraphale can relate -- at least to the delirium, first and foremost. Secondly... there is a certain emotion that Aziraphale can’t quite wrap his hands around, so he wraps himself around Crowley instead to make up for it. He’s scared, maybe, if he lets himself slow down and think about it, but quite honestly Crowley makes it nearly impossible to think about anything else.

He also makes it impossible to slow down.

Crowley breaks the kiss, pressing his teeth into Aziraphale’s lower lip instead, and he grins at the resulting gasp. Uttering a soft sound of protest, Aziraphale leans in to recapture his lips, but Crowley doesn’t give him the chance. Nudging Aziraphale’s hands from his hair, he ignores Aziraphale’s protest and sinks back down his body, settling back down onto his knees instead. 

Oh. 

Any argument Aziraphale might have given sufficiently dies in his throat when Crowley lifts his hands to unfasten his belt. From down at Aziraphale’s feet, Crowley smiles obscenely up at him, and spits crudely into the palm of the hand bearing Aziraphale’s persistently shimmering ring. 

Stomach dropping, Aziraphale almost stammers out some instinctive forewarning, but then Crowley’s hand wraps around his cock and all he manages is a choked moan. Covering his mouth with his fist, Aziraphale feels like he loses time for several seconds. Crowley is saying something, maybe some half murmured encouragement, but Aziraphale can’t quite make it out over the sound of his own hammering heartbeat. 

His other hand finds Crowley’s hair again, grabbing a fistful of loose curls and a half-formed braid. Aziraphale tries his best not to actively pull too tightly, but Crowley doesn’t make it easy. He seems set on some particular sort of torment: stroking along the entire length of him in a slow, steady rhythm. When Aziraphale lets himself watch, it’s almost enough to leave him undone: Crowley’s eyes staring back up at him, and the matching gold that flickers with every movement of his hand. 

“Oh--” Aziraphale starts, before slapping his hand over his mouth more firmly.  _ Best not say that here. _

Face splitting into a vicious grin, Crowley lets out his own shuddering sigh. His hand slows, and Aziraphale foolishly thinks this might mean some relief. Crowley, in all his wicked nature, clearly doesn’t intend to be merciful with him. Bracing his hand on the base of Aziraphale’s cock, he holds him steady, and he gazes up at Aziraphale unwaveringly as he takes him into his mouth. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure he can describe the noise he makes. He’s given up on muffling himself, both hands holding tight in Crowley’s hair like a lifeline as his knees threaten to buckle. The first real thrust of his hips is on sheer, mindless instinct, but Crowley moans in obvious approval, his hands squeezing on the back of Aziraphale’s thighs in clear invitation: his mouth soft, wet, warm, and Aziraphale can barely keep his thoughts together...

“Crowley,” he chokes, finally coherent -- if just barely. His fingers scramble over Crowley’s scalp, alternating nervously between smoothing out the tangled locks and twisting them up in his fists. “Ah. Crowley, I--” 

Humming around him, Crowley’s eyes drift shut. His tongue moves in a depraved, slick slide along the underside of his cock and Aziraphale loses himself. Letting out a shaking moan, he gives in: moving in an unsteady but firm rhythm up into Crowley’s waiting mouth, and he takes it all with shameless abandon. There’s only so much Aziraphale can endure, and he cries out when he comes, one hand buried deep in Crowley’s hair, while the other finds his hand and grips it tight. Crowley’s ringed hand squeezes back, and he lingers with him, waiting for the worst of Aziraphale’s shuddering to subside before he withdraws, pulling back with an obscene, slick sound. 

Breathing shakily, Aziraphale almost collapses then and there, so it’s remarkably easy for Crowley to yank him down onto the bedding. Pushing Aziraphale onto his back, Crowley slithers up on top of him, straddling his waist and smirking down at him. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale utters softly, his hands coming to rest on Crowley’s narrow hips. “Are you...?” He starts, then trails off, uncertain what he means to say, but Crowley fills in his gaps. 

“Going to say your name?” Crowley offers, idly tracing the damp edge of his mouth with his thumb, and Aziraphale’s entire body aches. 

“Please,” Aziraphale laughs, despite himself, as his hands move to Crowley’s clothes. “I’d like that very much--”

\--

In the early light of the morning, laying on the meager cushioning of Crowley’s bedspread, Aziraphale watches Crowley strap himself into his armour. Sitting on the edge of the thin mattress, Crowley seems to be working from his feet up. He hasn’t put on his breastplate yet, giving Aziraphale full view of the chain around his neck, and the ring that hangs upon it. Tightening his jaw, Aziraphale finds his voice weak when he speaks.

“You’ve made up your mind then, have you?” he observes, as he sits up.

Glancing sideways at him, Crowley doesn’t pause. “Are you going to try to stop me?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. 

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump. His chest twists miserably, his hands fussing with fistfuls of his sheets. “Crowley--” he starts. 

“Look, I’ve got orders, angel,” he tells him sternly, though there’s an odd waver in his tone that Aziraphale is unfamiliar with. “Lancelot  _ might _ have Holy powers, but the legions of Hell most definitely do have  _ Unholy _ powers, and will use them if I don’t follow through.” 

“But will they?” Aziraphale argues, pushing aside the blankets and approaching Crowley’s side. “You said so yourself: will they actually check?”

“I meant the little stuff,” Crowley says, though he sounds unconvinced. “A temptation here, a blessing there… not the real orders. Besides, if they find out I left England with my demonic tail tucked between my legs, I’d never hear the end of it.” 

“Listen to me,” Aziraphale pleads. “There’s a whole kingdom of people who want to see you destroyed--”

“Oh, that’s nothing new,” Crowley brags, though the smugness doesn’t ring true. “I’ve handled that before. That’s just being a demon, really.”

“Crowley,  _ please _ .”

Aziraphale extends his hand, touching his shoulder, and Crowley’s response is to immediately recoil, rising to his feet and stepping out of his reach. Crowley only seems to realize what he’s done after he’s done it, and his expression softens. As if to recover from the vulnerability of the gesture, Crowley quickly crosses the tent to collect the rest of his armour -- as if that was the original intent behind his rushed retreat. 

“I’ve made up my mind,” Crowley says hurriedly. “I’m competing.” 

Stubbornly, Aziraphale pursues him, following after him. “If you must compete, I understand that,” he says desperately, “but if you do… do you have to win?” As he speaks, the realization settles in, and the words come tumbling out of his mouth. “You could  _ lose _ , Crowley!” 

“Beg your pardon?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale comes closer. On instinct, he almost touches him again, then thinks better of it. 

“The champion must unmask in front of Arthur, but there’s no ceremony for the runner-up,” Aziraphale explains quickly. “Lancelot won’t try to unmask you on purpose. No one will see who you are. Hell won’t question it; they know Lancelot is skilled and they couldn’t blame you for losing…”

Or, maybe they could, but Aziraphale is desperate, and Crowley glowers at him. 

“You want me to lose on purpose?” Crowley says slowly. 

“Please,” repeats Aziraphale weakly. 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Crowley just watches him for a moment. “You know,” he begins, his voice oddly monotone. “You were on the right track, with what you said before. I do like all this.” Crowley spins his finger around, gesturing to the general area around them. “Probably as much as you like it. You don’t want to lose being a Knight of the Round Table, since it means so much...” Shrugging, Crowley holds his arms open. His voice changes, adopting a tone that Aziraphale is entirely unfamiliar with, something low and sinister. “Maybe I feel the same way about being the Black Knight. I’m a  _ good _ Demon; I’m a threatening Adversary, and they all cower when they see me and I  _ like _ it.” 

“That isn’t true,” Aziraphale counters quietly, and Crowley sneers at him. 

“It is true,” Crowley says insistently, snatching his helmet up from the floor of the tent and tucking it under his arm. “I’m competing, angel, and if your  _ Holy Knight _ holds back, then it’s his own fault, since I’m going to knock him right off his predictably white horse!”

Then he’s gone. Aziraphale watches him leave the tent, hearing the sharp whinny of his steed as he kicks it into action, and he’s left with nothing but the countless things he’s left unsaid.

\--

Aziraphale has to do something. The streets are packed for this final match, and the closer he gets to the stands, the tighter the crowds become, but he persists. If Crowley won’t listen to him, Aziraphale can maybe talk some sense into his opponent.

There’s a lucky thing that comes with Lancelot’s disguise. No one knows who this smalltown knight is, and very few are at huddling at his station. Aziraphale manages to part through the bustling people towards what is  _ finally _ an empty piece of space-- only to step forward at the exact time as someone else. 

“Oh--! I’m terribly sorry,” he says quickly, his voice picking up speed once he realizes exactly who he bumped into. Bowing dramatically, Aziraphale practically throws himself forward. “Oh,  _ so _ terribly sorry--! Lady Guinevere. My Queen. Your Majesty. Your most… royal ladyship!” 

Guinevere laughs, a little breathless herself. “Oh, Sir Aziraphale,” she greets, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with one hand, while the other fusses with an elegant length of silk. “Lady Guinevere is perfectly sufficient. I’m sorry as well; I wasn’t minding my step. I was in a hurry.”

“Yes, so am I!” Aziraphale explains, and then it clicks. “Oh. Are we… um.” Clearing his throat, he straightens his shoulders. “I believe we might be looking for the same person?” He nods subtly to the fabric in her grip. “Is that for him?” 

“Oh, yes!” Guinevere says, straightening her own posture and speaking just a little stiffly. “It is for our… most new and brave knight, who has raised in the ranks, surprising us all. I am hoping to introduce myself to him. For the first time. As we are not acquainted. And I am offering this as a token of goodwill. I noticed that he is riding without a Favour, and that’s terrible luck to bring into the last match.” 

“Is it really?” Aziraphale asks skeptically, squinting a little. Where are they all getting this?

“Why, of course,” Guinevere replies, though she almost sounds like she’s unconvinced herself. “Especially when his opponent wears a Favour so proudly.”

Stomach dropping, Aziraphale stammers a little. “O-oh. Does he now?” he says, trying not to seem too terribly interested. 

“You must not have seen yet,” Guinevere says. “Sir Crowley wears a ring from his beloved. It hangs around his neck, and looks quite bold against his armour; quite impossible to miss.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and mouth feels very dry. “His… beloved?” he repeats slowly and Guinevere smiles at him. 

“I am going to see our waiting knight,” she continues, her cheeks a little flushed. “If you’d like me to relay any message…” 

Shaking his head, Aziraphale tries to refocus. “Yes! Of course. Oh… I just.” Aziraphale winces. “He was trying to help me, and I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of things instead.”

Guinevere smiles sadly. “He is terribly helpful, isn’t he?”

“Dreadfully,” Aziraphale agrees. “Would you tell him I’m sorry? I was trying to make things right; it just didn’t work out.” 

Guinevere sighs so heavily it moves her whole body. “That’s often how it happens, isn’t it?” she says, and she steps closer to him.

“I know exactly how you feel.”

Leaning up just a touch, Guinevere presses a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek before she takes her leave. 

\--

Sitting in the stands, Aziraphale waits. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, clenching together tightly. Three rounds, he thinks to himself. That’s all it’ll be… and it’s horrifying to think such a short span of time could change so much. Distantly, Aziraphale wonders if he ought to utter a little prayer… but really, he isn’t sure if a Holy intervention is really what he needs right now.

The knights come forward. Sir Lancelot, in his humble disguise, is received with joyous applause and cries. It’s no small surprise; everyone loves an underdog rising to the ranks… even if it’s a deception. Truthfully, when he’s revealed for his real self, people might just cheer louder. 

When Crowley rides forward, the change is like night and day. The crowd is just as roaring, but it’s with scorn instead. They shout, pounding their feet and slapping their hands on the wooden barriers, and Crowley waves his hand to them, holding out his arms like he’s embracing an old friend.

On his chest, atop the pitch black armour, Aziraphale’s ring gleams like a single star in the dead of night.

_ Please, _ Aziraphale thinks helplessly, his eyes squeezed shut.  _ Please. _

They ride, and Aziraphale forces himself to watch. When the impact comes, Aziraphale flinches like he’s the one struck -- but it’s Lancelot who takes the blow. The crowd clamours, snarling and spitting, and Aziraphale covers his mouth with his hand.

“Oh, Crowley,” he utters miserably. Even from here, he can hear Crowley laughing, mocking as he rides back to his starting point: as if all their rage and hate just fills him up. Aziraphale needs this to end, but it’s barely just begun. The second tilt comes, and Aziraphale’s heart hammers in his chest. 

Lancelot strikes true, and the crash is nearly deafening. Crowley’s whole body is thrown back, and his horse screams, shrill and wild, as its legs begin to buckle. Aziraphale begs -- prays -- that it would just  _ fall.  _ If it falls, he loses, and he’d be spared all of this. Please, you idiot beast, for both your sakes, just  _ fall-- _

It doesn’t. Crowley yanks hard on its reins, bringing it back on all four feet, but both the horse and the rider look abruptly haggard. 

Aziraphale was right -- when Lancelot strikes him, he must feel it like something Ethereal… and if this tournament ends and they draw swords...

Rising from his seat, Aziraphale runs. No one in the stands appreciates his hurry, but he shoves past them, using every bit of haste that he has. 

“Crowley!” 

When he approaches, the horse rears up with a cry, and Aziraphale jumps back to stop himself from being trampled. “Oi!” Crowley snarls, raising the visor of his helmet, “watch it, would you? He’s a bit wary of you Blessed types right now.”

So that confirms it. Aziraphale’s heart sinks. “Oh, Crowley, don’t be an idiot,” he pleads, laying his hand over Crowley’s where it rests on the reins. “You’ll be  _ killed. _ ” 

“I can beat him,” Crowley insists, his voice hissing now more than ever. “I can win.” 

“I know you can,” Aziraphale answers, immediately and sincerely. “I’ve never doubted that you can! That’s the problem! You don’t have to prove anything, Crowley!” It takes a stretch, but Aziraphale reaches out, his hand closing over the ring that Crowley wears around his neck. “Especially not to me.”

Gazing up at him imploring, Aziraphale’s voice weakens. “Please. I don’t care if you win; I just want you to survive.” 

Behind them, the crowd becomes impatient, calling for the final round, and Crowley slams his visor down. “Out of the way, angel.”

For a moment, Aziraphale debates holding his ground, digging his heels in and blocking Crowley’s way… instead, he steps back, because in the end it’s Crowley’s choice, and Aziraphale can’t force his hand. 

With his path clear, Crowley rides forward. The stand’s shake with the sound of spectator’s cries, and the final tilt begins. Kicking his heels against his mount, Crowley charges, and the beast rushes forward, hooves thundering and nostrils flaring with all the fires of Hell--

\--for about half of the length of the run, before Crowley yanks him to a complete stop. 

Given the usual circumstance, a knight such as Lancelot wouldn’t follow through with a strike on an unmoving opponent, but the power of momentum is a terrible thing, and not even Arthur’s greatest knight can resist it. 

While it would be a challenge, given the volume of the stadium, but anyone with a sharp enough ear would hear the Black Knight’s voice, mere seconds before Lancelot knocks him clear off his horse:

“Bugger it.”

\--

“Ow.  _ Ow _ \--!” 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale scolds, though he sounds far too pleased with himself. Prying Crowley’s dented armour off his chest is more of an ordeal than he anticipates, especially considering how sensitive Crowley is being about it. “You’re being dramatic.”

“ _ I’m  _ dramatic?” Crowley mocks, glaring at him. “I’m covered in heavenly bruises is what I am, and a prisoner in my own armour.” 

“I did warn you,” Aziraphale points out, unstrapping the complicated buckling of Crowley’s breastplate. “Hold on -- there.”

As the final piece of his armour clatters to the ground, Crowley groans in relief. “Finally,” he sighs, though he winces when he tries to stretch his arms. “Oh, that still smarts…” 

“He certainly did a number, didn’t he?” Aziraphale observes, peering at the sufficiently mangled mess of Crowley’s armour. “You should consider yourself lucky.”

“So should he,” Crowley counters, rolling his shoulder back as if trying to work out a knot. “You know. Considering I spared him the full brunt of my wrath.”

“Mhm,” intones Aziraphale.

“I’m serious; I had a whole thing planned,” Crowley explains, rubbing at a presumably sore spot in his neck. “They wanted to slay a dragon? I was going to give them one: turn myself into a great big thing. Fire and brimstone and the like. It’d be terrifying; they’d be terrified.”

“I’m sure,” says Aziraphale, just a little indulgently. 

“Would’ve been a real sight,” he insists, lifting up the hem of his shirt to reveal a particularly nasty set of bruises. Cringing a little, he hisses when he touches them. “Shame they won’t get to see it.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. Stepping closer, he reaches out and he lays his fingers on Crowley’s skin. It only takes a little thought, not even a prayer, and they disappear. “And I’m very grateful for that,” he tells him sincerely. 

Crowley stays quiet for a long moment before he scoffs, dropping the edge of his shirt back down again. “Anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat. “The Black Knight ought to make himself scarce for awhile, I think.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Aziraphale agrees, though with very little enthusiasm. “You’ve attracted quite a bit of attention from the wrong sort of people.” He pauses for a moment, then amends. “Well. They’re Good people. Just wrong for you.” 

“Hm,” hums Crowley thoughtfully, and his fingers raise, toying with the ring still dangling from around his neck. He lingers there, gazing down at it: gold watching gold, before he lifts it up over his head, offering it back to Aziraphale. 

“Thanks for the Favour,” he says, the casual air very clearly forced. “Sorry I didn’t win for you.” 

“Oh…” Aziraphale weakens, holding his palm out and letting Crowley place the ring within it. Aziraphale smiles, and it takes a serious effort to maintain the steadiness of his voice. “That’s quite all right, Good Sir Knight. You fought very bravely.” 

Crowley makes a vague noise that Aziraphale can’t pin down to any one emotion. After strapping the dented mess of his armour to his horse, he climbs into the saddle, glancing down at Aziraphale.

“You know, this is still a Bad thing,” Crowley points out. “Lancelot wins; he gets the last of the set of diamonds for Guinevere… which she’s bound to love, and so they keep going on with their affair until it tears everything apart. So, it’s not really a loss, from my side’s point of view.”

That’s how Crowley is going to sell this to Hell, surely, but Aziraphale isn’t so certain he agrees. “Is it really such a bad thing?” he asks. “They love each other.”

Shrugging, Crowley’s expression tightens. “Well, they’re not supposed to.” 

Aziraphale’s posture slumps, just a little, and he smiles faintly. What had Guinevere said?

“That’s often how it happens, isn’t it?” Aziraphale recalls. 

\--

Just as promised, the final banquet for the tournament’s champion puts all the other feasts which came before it to shame. As predicted, no one is actually upset about Lancelot’s deception; Aziraphale supposes everyone loves a good piece of drama too much to be bothered. The party is already well underway when Aziraphale arrives, and one would expect with all the bustling crowds, his own absence wouldn’t have been noticed.

Except it is, and by the worst possible person. 

“Good Sir Aziraphale,” the king says. “You’re late.”

Arthur looks particularly royal tonight: dressed in brilliant red, and Aziraphale is red as well -- in his face, at least, when he’s called out so explicitly. 

“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale admits with a wince. “Terribly sorry. You see, I was… ah.” Aziraphale freezes, struggling for some reasonable excuse.  _ I was fixing the wounds of your mortal enemy, my lord, just tending to him and seeing him on his way! _ That certainly won’t work. 

Luckily, he is in the company of men whose entire purpose is to save those in distress. A firm hand clasps on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he does his best not to startle. “My Lord,” Lancelot greets, perhaps a bit too merrily -- and Aziraphale has to wonder if he’s had a bit too much to drink already. “If I may interrupt: you should consider yourself blessed to see Sir Aziraphale in one piece! He’s the only man who was brave enough to pursue the Black Knight after the tournament ended.” 

Aziraphale stiffens, and Arthur’s stare narrows at him. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Lancelot continues, his chest swelling proudly. “You’ve witnessed his bravery yourself, haven’t you, your Grace? So few dared to even speak to the man, much less as boldly as Sir Aziraphale. He has pursued the Black Knight relentlessly through this whole tournament.” 

That’s certainly a way of putting it. Aziraphale can’t decide whether he wants Lancelot to keep talking or to shut up. Settling abruptly on the latter, he blurts out. “Yes! That is what I’ve been doing this -- this whole time!” he declares, too loudly. “And not to worry! I’ve taken care of things, once and for all.” Aziraphale raises his chin proudly. “The Black Knight won’t trouble your kingdom any more, my Lord!” 

Arthur’s eyes widen, and Aziraphale realizes he did not think this through. “You mean to say… that you challenged the Black Knight, and you won?” 

“Ah…” Aziraphale utters uselessly. 

“He is modest,” Lancelot says, making it very apparent that he’s enjoying this too much. “But that is what he means, Arthur.” Grinning, Lancelot steps back, bowing to Aziraphale and loudly proclaiming. “Sir Aziraphale! Knight of the Table Round and Dragonslayer!” 

Oh dear. 

Beaming hugely, Arthur gestures around. Quick as anything, he’s handed a glass of wine, and Aziraphale finds one shoved into his hands as well. “An honour, Sir Aziraphale!” Arthur declares, raising his glass, and the whole room snaps to attention. “Dragonslayer!”

As Arthur cheers the ridiculous title, the crowd echoes him. Loudest of all is Lancelot, who finishes with a bow that quickly infects everyone surrounding him, until nearly the whole room is bent double before him. Aziraphale startles, then laughs, and finds himself utterly at a loss for words. Through it all, one thought remains firmly on the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind:

He can’t  _ wait  _ to tell Crowley about this.


End file.
